Wishful Thinking
by manyissues101
Summary: -Mrs. Call ponders her son's location, adultery, and her parenting abilities.- It was stupid, really, and I knew it. Embry wouldn't be there. I could pound down the door and it still wouldn't wake him, because wherever my boy slept it wasn't here...


I opened my eyes. My bedroom was dark, the only thing filtering through the window was the faint moonlight. Too faint to do much, for the moon was mostly hidden behind the blanket of clouds, only giving off the most miniscule of light. Enough to be there, but not enough to see by.

I ignored the primal urge to lay my head back down. I had my own job to do. Even if I already knew what was to come. It was such a routine now that getting out of bed in the middle of the night wasn't even a chore, like it once was. No, my feet dragged for a different reason. I knew that when I opened the door to my son's room, I'd find it empty. It was always empty.

Still, I couldn't suppress that child-like hope in me that he'd be there, sleeping soundly, like the little boy I'd gotten to know for sixteen years. He was different now, grown, much more than he should have been, it seemed. There was something in his eyes, something about the way he held himself....something was wrong with him, I knew it. I was his mother. These senses came naturally to us.

I gently eased the door open, my shoulder against the dark wood, trying to be as quiet as possible. It was stupid, really, and I knew it. Embry wouldn't be there. I could pound down the door with an axe and it still wouldn't wake him, because wherever my boy slept, it wasn't here. I flipped the light on, still hoping...

His bed was empty. All made up, like he hadn't slept in it in months. Truth was, he hadn't. But it was done exactly as I'd nagged him all these years--he was always a good kid, willing to follow my rules without the slightest argument. I went too easy on him, I think. Because now he seemed to do everything but follow my rules. Sure, he did the dishes when I asked, and when I came home from work and wanted to do nothing but lay on the couch, he'd bring me something to drink and order pizza. He was a good kid, with good grades and good friends. A good kid.

Maybe that's why it hurt so damn much.

I shakily made my way over to his bed, lowering myself onto the mattress. There was no sign of him here--no muss of the covers, no silky hair on the pillow. He'd cut almost all of his hair off--to look like the other boys or something, I gathered. The first time I saw it, I went up to my room and cried.

Gently, I lay where his body would rest, if he were here. I knew the way his arm would curl underneath him, the angle at which his knee would bend. You couldn't spend sixteen years watching someone sleep and grow oblivious. A tear, maybe two, rolled down my cheek to soak into the pillowcase. Then one or two more, a sniffle, a sigh--that's all it took to cut me to pieces.

I wondered if I was being punished. If, somehow, Embry knew about his father, who he was. I'd never told him, and I was positive his dad hadn't either. Embry used to ask me, when he was mine (that's how I thought about him before this drastic phase, this state of rebellion), about his father. If I do this, he'd begin, will you tell me? I'd reply with an offhand, maybe, even though I never would. It was the ultimate bargaining chip, though he'd end up doing everything anyway. And every time I'd look into his eyes, and a part of me would break off, because he'd be waiting and waiting for something that I'd never let him know. He assumed that his father lived up the coast, on one of the other reservations. He'd ask, this is when he was a little older, "Does he know I exist?"

"Yes. He does." And that was all I could say.

"Do you think he'll ever want to see me?"

"I don't know, Embry. I really don't know." And my throat would swell shut.

Could it be revenge? Revenge for lying, revenge for false hopes? Revenge from God, for messing around with another woman's husband? I didn't love him, I didn't pretend to. That's just how it happened. I'd screwed up--I'll be the first to admit to it. But Embry changed all of that. I could only pray he wouldn't turn out like me. My teenage years hadn't been the kind of thing a person would wish for their child.

Sometimes I'd lye in his bed all night, and I'd wake to find him downstairs on the couch, having covered me up sometime during the night. Usually he'd be napping, and I could tell that he'd been denied sleep for a long time. It worried me, and I always tried to talk to him about it, but he'd brush me off with silence. That's all I ever got from him when I tried to broach the subject. Silence.

I could yell, scream, plead, whisper, spell it out, write it in a note, ask casually--I was always met with silence.

Maybe I'd just failed as a parent. This wasn't what I bargained for, honestly. The whole experience had come as a shock, my own personal mountain to claw my way up. A single parent, a secret scandal--having to look his father in the eye, and watching him look the other way.

I sat up and stared out of the window in my son's room. It was the window he had climbed out of tonight, and the night before that, and the night before that. I'd had locks installed from the outside, only to find him gone and the window locked back tight. I'd paid to have rocks put on the ground underneath, thinking he wouldn't be stupid enough to jump down when the stones could cut his skull. He was gone that night and back the next morning, uninjured. I'd grounded him for life enough to keep any great-great-great grandchildren I'd ever have under house arrest. I'd screamed and cried until my throat went raw and blood vessels in my eyes popped--and nothing worked.

"Oh, Embry, honey...I wish you'd just come home to me," I murmured, pressing my wet cheek against the cool glass window. "I'm sorry I'm such a horrible mother..."

In the distance, a wolf howled. I closed my eyes, swallowing back another wave of tears.

I could have sworn I'd just heard my son's voice.

Probably just wishful thinking.

0FIN0

Because I've had a sudden, violent attacking fit of love for the wolves.

Also, I'm a junkie for stories about characters' family. Seriously, if you know me, if you know my stuff, then you know the truth in that statement. Either way, I don't own anything here. Even though she's only mentioned, like, once, Miss Call still belongs to Mrs. Meyer. As does Embry, naturally.

Dedicated to my old friends in the Lex chat room--you probably won't ever read this, but I really miss you guys. Look, Ali wrote a story that doesn't have Jazz in it--what a surprise!!

I have another story I wrote about Embry imprinting that I'm debating about posting. It's not a self-insert MS--I didn't even give her a name. It's just a little look, a oneshot, into Embry's head, which I wanted to try, and into his future. I'm not sure if anyone would read it, since technically it is imprint!EmbryxOC, but I want to try. If anyone is interested, let me know--I'll post it. If you think I should shove it in the trash for even considering him imprinting then tell me to and I will.


End file.
